Peach
by schizophrenic-clown
Summary: It starts on a Tuesday night. (Established Relationship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Zombies, Zombielock, Necrophilia)


It starts on a Tuesday night.

The hearth casts a loving, warm ambience to the otherwise dreary take of the weather outside. It quells imaginary demons and ghosts into the deepest corners of the flat, urging them to hide with a scrape of finger to lips. Everything is calm, relaxing, set to the motion of the crackling fire and the soft turn of pages in a novel held by an ex-army doctor.

"Well, fuck."

Two loud smacks to their Food and Experiments table fill the air, piercing the eardrums of John Watson. At this, he shuts the literature in such an exaggerated annoyance that could only come off as playful. "What is it?"

A whispered "nothing" is the reply, and John tilts his head to rest against the back of his chair. "Nothing?" he questions, and he shifts to get a glance at the kitchen, at the man perched on a chair, microscope set in front of him. "Nothing you do can be explained with 'nothing', Sherlock."

The one in the next room doesn't answer.

John straightens up, tucking the book closer to his chest, fingers encased inside to mark his place. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"It's nothing, John," repeats the consulting detective. John watches him squirm in his seat as he readjusts his hold on the science equipment. "Go to bed. I'll be there in a few."

Noting how Sherlock doesn't give a clarity if he means a few seconds, minutes, hours (or possibly days, knowing him), John still decides to oblige. Dog-earing the top right corner of the page, he tosses the book on the cushion of his chair and stretches before maneuvering into the kitchen. He can't help but to allow himself a quick scout of the table's surface as he passes. So, he pauses behind Sherlock, running his fingers through the dark curls, itching at the roots. "'Night," he tells him, and he gets a hum in return.

Satisfied with both the response and the state of the (usually cluttered) table, John goes to the bedroom.

* * *

John shouldn't be upset when he wakes up the next morning to find the bed covers beside him empty and cold, but it still happens. He should be used to the numerous nights he goes to bed alone; and although he can't force the sick feeling in his stomach to disappear entirely, he manages to smile as he exits the bedroom in a disheveled mess. Prattling at inopportune moments, forgetting meals, and pushing to the brink of exhaustion, Sherlock is the center of John's universe and all the other universes as well. With this amount of self-induced negligent abuse, John should persuade himself to stop finding the detective _attractive_, but everything makes sense when Sherlock's around to deduce and shout at inanimate objects and ignorant individuals and the like.

Everything is fast-paced. Everything is a roar of thunder.

Except when it's not.

This particular Wednesday morning, instead of finding the noiret sitting at the couch or standing in the kitchen with a fresh cup of tea in hand, John spots him on the floor by the table. His head is uncomfortably propped against a chair's leg, his body contorted and twisted into a tight coil only a fetus or serpent would have the pliability to hold. The pose itself is not what worries the doctor (he's quite used to seeing Sherlock pass out on any stretch of floor he can observe after finishing a draining case), but the sounds he is producing.

John has heard (possibly) all the noises Sherlock can vocalize, and that ranges from hums of obvious astonishment to sharp intakes of breath when a set of eight nails drag down the column of his spine. From the long list of said tones, a hushed sort of whimper does not come across as "common". The pained squeaks are ones to erupt from an animal when they are scared or hurt, not from a grown man on a kitchen floor.

Naturally, John drops to his hands and knees and slides toward Sherlock. Brow furrowed and a frown present on his face, he nudges the one lying against the table and says, "Sherlock, you okay?"

At once, the body unfolds, and arms and legs scrabble to gather enough strength to present themselves able to move. Sherlock tosses his head back to meet the gaze of John, and his eyes are enough to betray the portrayal of uttermost confidence he had hoped to show. Unlike the pools of light spring rain, they have turned into a stormy navy, and John, pulling together the right amount of consideration, mumbles, "You're all right."

Sherlock would never open up like a children's book if John barricaded him with rough intentions and threats, so John needs only to present a simple fact that is not a fact at all, and Sherlock is over it like a cat and mouse. He devours the statement as John had expected. In only a matter of minutes, John receives a vivid collection of coherent sentences that piece together as Very Bad in his mind.

"I think I done something a Bit Not Good," Sherlock repeats when John stares at him with wide eyes, a tilted head, and pursed lips. Another round of silence passes before Sherlock, again, reiterates the nine words. He gets a response this time, but it's only delivered in stubborn shakes of the head and a walk to the counter. "John, I think—" he starts, but is cut off by a finger pressing against his lips.

"I'm thinking," says John, and then he furrows his brow as he swiftly pulls his hand away from his boyfriend's mouth. "You," he begins, then freezes, quickly slapping the back of his palm to the forehead of the taller adult in the room. Ignoring the immature complaint of getting hurt, John states in a calm tone, "You have a fever, Sherlock." He forms his lips into a thin line again. "What could you have possibly done to yourself? Injected yourself with the Spanish Influenza? Anthrax?" John almost wishes for the tremble to return to his hand so he'd have a viable reason to grip onto the counter top other than the impulse to punch Sherlock in the nose.

Seeming to weigh the options John gave him, Sherlock takes his time to reply. After a brief matter of minutes, he manages to choose a few words from his brilliant mind to say.

And out of all the words in his fantastic vocabulary, Sherlock decides to choose—

"I don't know."

And John continues to fight the overwhelming urge to punch Sherlock in the nose. "You don't know," he says.

"Yes."

They have a staring contest. John grits his teeth. "Well, you better find out."

Sherlock's eyes retract a form of glimmer, and before John can wave a finger to prevent him from being clever, he proudly says, "Do you suggest I name it after myself then? It's undiscovered. It's unknown. Shall we document my findings and call it Sherlock's Disease?"

"Sherlock."

"Or perhaps just my last name? Holmes Strain? Do you like that? How about—"

"_Sherlock_."

"—the commonplace term?—the Z-Virus—or something else equally mundane."

It's as if the Earth has stopped revolving. All background noises and occurrences have ceased to exist as John looks at Sherlock with piercing eyes and parted lips. "Are you telling me," he manages to say in a low voice, "that you've injected yourself with something that could turn you into a _zombie_?"

Sherlock blinks and shrugs. "Potentially, yes."

"One problem, Sherlock," whispers John, his eyes slowly narrowing, as he raises his hand and smacks Sherlock on the forehead. "Zombies aren't real!"

With a curse and a wince, Sherlock stares at John with wide eyes. "I said 'potentially'!" But John isn't listening. He's turned his back on the consulting detective, arms crossed over his chest and jaw set in disappointment and anger. Sherlock stands behind John, his gaze burning into the back of the blond's head. He groans. "John, this is stupid. I'm fine."

He's arguing like a child to their mother. His voice has even managed to raise several octaves to match the similarity.

John, still giving the other the Silent Treatment, decides to go back to the bedroom without any breakfast.

Sherlock doesn't protest.

* * *

Normally, the flat would be quiet during the day. On occasion, Sherlock would compose on his violin, and John would watch. Sherlock would pause to point out the love life of a pedestrian walking on the street below, and John would ask, "How could you possibly know that?" And Sherlock would grin, and John would smile, and they'd bask in the intimacy.

Today, of all days, has to be the day to break that habit.

Whether the tantrum is brought by John's decision to keep to himself in the bedroom or not, Sherlock manages to wake every cell in John's body for the upcoming months.

Among the sounds of objects falling to the floor, the few slips against walls, the constant rambling, and the blasted gunshots, John cannot figure out what Sherlock is doing. At first, John thinks he's just bored, but with further thought, the only explanation would be his engaging in more experiments to deduce if he's actually a reanimated corpse.

This is all completely impossible, considering Sherlock's not actually dead.

Then John hears another gunshot, and his veins start pumping with adrenaline. Despite his legs itching to check the "crime scene", he stays in the bed, allowing the soft white sheets to comfort his beating heart. Absentmindedly, his fingers creep to his neck, to the collar of his gray tee, grabbing the metal chain lying homage on his chest.

He doesn't recall falling asleep, but he remembers the door opening. His dog tags are still in his palm, pressing a thin formation into the skin that he doesn't really mind. His head turns, and his cheek hits the pillow. Clearing his throat, John greets the being who had stepped into the room.

To no surprise, it's Sherlock. And, strangely, the smell of smoke and ash and gunpowder and something else he can't quite name clinging to Sherlock's figure doesn't surprise him either. The scent is second-nature to him at this point in his life. Tucking the necklace back into his shirt, John rolls onto his stomach and stares at Sherlock with unwavering eyes. Cautiously, he tells him "hello" again, because he didn't get a reply the first time.

When three minutes pass by without a sign of Sherlock returning the welcoming gesture, John debates on repeating the word for a third time. He stays silent, however.

Sherlock goes over to the bed, climbing atop and sitting beside John. Their eyes never meet. Growing anxious, John raises both eyebrows and scoots a few inches away from the man. "Sherlock?" he asks. "You okay?"

"No." The word is sharp. It slices through the air like a dagger to land in John's heart.

John swallows, sniffs. He gets a huge hit of iron. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"I'm dead, John."

Cruel hands twist the knife in the muscle in John's chest.

His initial reaction is to shake his head and push Sherlock out of the bed with a light-hearted remark about it being improbable, but he doesn't do any of that. He finds himself reaching out with a shaking hand to grab at Sherlock's wrist. At a glance, one would see it as a comforting motion; but with their eyes finally meeting and John's fingers skimming the inner curve of Sherlock's wrist to find a trace of a pulse (oh, God, no; God, no), the action is more of a lover's last goodbye to their dying partner.

Finally, John can pinpoint the other smell that flooded his nostrils when Sherlock entered the bedroom. Along with the help of the too awful, too vivid imagery of his reoccurring nightmares and the large, red hole in the middle of Sherlock's torso, John utters, "You smell like Afghanistan."

And Sherlock, ripping his gaze and wrist away from John, doesn't say anything in return.

* * *

John chooses to live in a state of denial. Instead of commenting on the abnormally large pile of black hair coating the drain, he scoops it out of sight and continues with his shower; and when he sits beside Sherlock while they're watching the telly, John fails to acknowledge the flakes that seem to fly off every time Sherlock moves.

He even tries his hardest not to notice Sherlock staring at him with his teeth snagged on his bottom lip and his eyes displaying every level of perversion.

He honestly thinks he's doing a decent job at going about a normal life.

But on the following Saturday, Sherlock stumbles into the Food and Experiments Table and manages to peel off the first layer of flesh clinging to his ankle. To make the situation worse, Sherlock announces in a loud voice, "John, my skin's falling off now!" No matter what John does, he knows he has to confront the detective.

He stays in the bedroom, though. "How bad is it?" he asks, as if skin falling off has certain degrees of seriousness.

"There's little blood, obviously," Sherlock says. John can almost picture the eye roll. "Part of the skin is still attached. If you get me the proper tools, I can stitch it up."

For the briefest moment, John thinks Sherlock is going to barge in and go snooping through the contents of John's belongings to find the supplies he needs. He doesn't, and John swallows most of his anxiety and fear and anger before saying, "I'll do it."

After grabbing the required instruments, he departs from the bedroom and walks into the kitchen, where Sherlock is sitting at the table. His eyes are off to the side, narrowed in a way that appears he's concentrating on the way the refrigerator is humming. His trouser leg is also pulled up to comfortably rest against his calf muscle, and he has taken it upon himself to stretch the peeled skin back over the patch of newly exposed tissue. If this had been John (albeit he wouldn't turn himself into one of the walking dead), he'd rub the piece away and let the new skin strengthen, but considering their current debacle, John agrees that Sherlock needs all the help he can get.

So, he drops down to the floor and stabs the sewing needle into Sherlock's ankle, threading it through until the body part could appear presentable again. However, that term could never be used around Sherlock anymore.

The procedure doesn't take long, but John feels like he's performed open-heart surgery. The acids in his stomach won't settle down, and he is dizzier than usual. Bile scratches at the tube in his throat. He sits before Sherlock, eyes wide and on the body part he had previously doctored. The atrocious peach color he had chosen for the stitches is rumbling his head with the hands of Mother Nature. It doesn't compliment the gray undertones Sherlock's pallor is slowly melting to form, nor the thin streams of black, oily blood leaking from the small holes. John's hand goes to his mouth, his nails digging into his lips. "Oh," he groans.

"Oh," Sherlock repeats. His head has lowered to admire the threadwork. "I hate peach."

John leaves the flat in a hurry and doesn't return until morning.

* * *

On Monday evening, with the weather outside matching the mood distilled underneath John's jumper, Sherlock decides to perch on the back of his chair. His elbows are propped by his knees, his fingers steepled against his lips, and his eyes focused on John's expressionless face. "What are you thinking?" he asks, shifting a bit to get a more suitable spot on the chair.

John turns a page in his novel. "I'm not thinking. I'm reading."

"Don't be daft," Sherlock says, waving a hand and turning to marvel the fire in the hearth. "What's wrong?" he breathes into the air.

"Can't figure that one out for yourself, huh?" John tosses the book on the arm of the sofa and sighs, slipping a bit on the cushions to offer a more relaxed position. He stares into the fire as well.

Sherlock drums his fingertips against his kneecaps. "Did I ever apologize?" John merely shakes his head, and Sherlock whispers, "I'm sorry." John only nods in his form of accepting the apology. He doesn't feel like talking or _listening_, but Sherlock has other plans. He steps off the chair in one long stride and sits beside John on the couch. John doesn't attempt to straighten his poor posture, so Sherlock sinks to join the other in blissful ignorance of scoliosis. "I am sorry," he starts, although he has already said this. "I didn't even mean it. I still don't know what really happened."

"Well," John replies, crossing his arms over his chest, "it's done."

"I'm aware."

The blond slowly faces the nonliving human, his brow knitted and lips pressed into a thin line. "I," he begins, then pauses. "Why aren't you like those other zombies?" he asks. "Y'know, the green skin with missing body parts and no hair and a taste for brains?"

Sherlock sighs and shakes his head like John is the Stupidest Person Ever. "John, don't be simple. That only happens on the telly and in films." He wrinkles his nose. "I have a superior mind, and that's my asset right now."

John nods. "Right."

"I scuffed my ankle on the table, and you fixed that. Plus, my hair's not falling out at an alarming rate."

"Okay."

"And I only acquire tea and small amounts of take-away."

"Yeah."

Sherlock scoffs, and he smiles. "I'm fine, John. Don't be ridiculous. My downfall is my lack of pulse."

John is inclined to agree, but with the scent of old blood and yellow pus and burnt flesh flooding his nostrils, he doesn't say anything.

* * *

Despite Sherlock's "condition", they've managed to sleep in the same bed. John used to refuse to touch the man, but there's only so much he could do when Sherlock liked to use his body as his own personal pillow. He would often wake in the middle of the night to Sherlock's face pressed against his chest, his fingers tightly curled around his bicep, with the desire to crawl under the bed. After getting past the idea of lying on a mattress with a dead thing, he strangely found Sherlock's less-than-fulfilling body heat a necessity to have a peaceful night's rest.

Tonight is no different.

Sherlock, his arms stretched over John's torso and his legs over John's, has his mouth on John's neck. His lips are twitching and allowing small words of nonsense escape into the confinements of John's ears. Most of them are periodic table elements, but a few are names of memorable scientists and German authors. John allows them to become his lullaby as he shuts his own eyes in hopes to fall asleep as fast as the one partly on top of him.

John's also managed to push past the smell Sherlock's dead body liked to produce. To be honest, if John buried his nose in the head of curls and _didn't_ find the odor, he's sure he'd go insane (although that might be an understatement right now). He's afraid to lose Sherlock. John constantly worries day after day what he would find when he wakes the next morning.

His hands run down to hold onto Sherlock's hips, pulling him into his side.

John isn't worried, or concerned, for that matter, that he's slowly becoming sexually attracted to a reanimated corpse. He tells himself it's Sherlock, it's Sherlock, it's _Sherlock_; so he shouldn't feel ashamed of wanting to bed him. He's done it many times before, and the upcoming times shouldn't be any different.

It shouldn't, but he knows it will.

So, he doesn't plan on bringing up the topic, or even talk about it if Sherlock does.

He pats Sherlock's hips, forgetting he had such a strong hold on the bones, and rolls over.

But Sherlock ends up touching his arm and roughly pushing him onto his back. With wide eyes, John looks at Sherlock, and Sherlock looks at John with the perfect, heavy-lidded, bedroom eyes, and John takes him right there.

The headboard smacks against the wall at all the right moments. Sherlock runs his fingers through John's hair like he used to do, and John's own fingers rake down the flesh of Sherlock's back with as much force as he would if he were still well.

Sherlock's body seems to have flushed its horrid smell to be replaced with the lively fragrance of sweat, sex, and John's deodorant, and the detective's lips even appear to move and taste the same as they had before.

Everything is okay. Everything is okay.

But then Sherlock yelps as his bottom lip falls off to land in a puddle of bodily fluids.

John, caught up in the rejoiceful intimacy, doesn't notice at first. He's climaxed and breathing hoarse nouns of love into Sherlock's shoulder when he sees the plump piece of flesh between their figures. And instead of acting civil and taking control of the situation, John pushes Sherlock away and scoots back until he falls off the bed. He flips onto his side, then, and sits up, scared out of his wits. "Sherlock," he says, raising a shaking hand and pointing at the skin on the bed. "Is that—?"

"It appears so." Spit drips down Sherlock's chin as he picks up his lip and examines it. "Strange." He turns to John, and with a pout and a shrug of his shoulders, he says, "I didn't orgasm yet."

John abruptly stands and shakes his head, lips parting. "You're not going to tonight."

"I hardly think that's fair," protests the one on the bed. "Reciprocation is vital for a relations—hey!" Sherlock's fingers curl around the air in his empty palm. He looks at John with his brow furrowed. "What are you going to do?"

Gathering the needle and thread again, John sits in front of Sherlock. He weakly smiles. "Gonna fix you."

"All right," Sherlock says wearily. He eyes the objects in John's hands. "It's not peach again, is it?"

Sighing, John pierces the lip with the sewing needle. "I don't think it matters since you won't be able to see it." With that, he scoots close to Sherlock and begins to work. After only a short while, the lip is fully attached to Sherlock's mouth again. John grins and delivers a curt nod. "There. Better?" He softly kisses him for measure and manages to fake another smile when he pulls away from Sherlock.

"I guess." The black-haired man frowns. "It feels weird."

"Well, you're dead," John spats, left hand shaking. "Now, turn around, so I can see if I done any more damage to you."

Silent, Sherlock spins around on the spot and gives a reason for John's spontaneous groaning. Thankful for Sherlock's continued silence, John grabs handfuls of more thread and begins to mend the long, eight scratches stretched down the length of the skin on Sherlock's back.

His work displays like a sick form of spider web, an odd corset piercing. John's mouth goes dry. To make everything worse, when Sherlock looks over his shoulder to survey, his bottom lip has detached. He sees nothing wrong with it, however, for he meets John's eyes and tells him his thanks. Then he tosses his bottom lip at John, _which fucking hits him on the cheek and slides down his neck_.

"Didn't feel good on my face," Sherlock says, as if it could explain his actions. "And I told you—I don't like peach."

John dresses and leaves the flat.

* * *

The first thing John sees when he returns in the morning is Sherlock sitting on the sofa, a cup of tea perfectly balanced on his left knee as he uses his right hand to hold his phone. His fingers are tightly curled around the glass screen, and his eyes are narrowed at a spot on the hard wood flooring. At hearing John's arrival, he raises his head, and they exchange a silent conversation.

"No" is the first word spoken on that Tuesday afternoon.

"Why not" are the second and third words to be heard.

To this, John stares at Sherlock, a frown clearly shown on his face. "You don't need to be out on the streets looking like that," he says, gesturing a rough hand in the detective's direction.

A loud sigh crawls into John's eardrums. He walks into the kitchen to pour himself a cup while Sherlock complains from the sitting room.

"I've been in here for the past week! And Lestrade's been texting me—there's been this really interesting case about a stolen toe, and he needs my input—"

"No one needs your input," counters John, walking back into the room and taking a seat in his chair. He sips.

Sherlock pouts. "Please, John. I'll cover my face. I'll wear a burqa."

Struggling to swallow down his gulp of tea, John points at Sherlock and disapprovingly shakes his head. "That's offensive."

"So, is that a 'no'?" he asks, eyebrow rising.

"I shouldn't have to explain this to you," John mumbles, tossing down the rest of his beverage. "Look, you just can't go out, okay? I'll tell everyone you have—I don't know—chicken pox or something. I have you quarantined and am treating you, because I've had chicken pox before, so I'll be fine. Just text Lestrade, and I'll drop by the Yard to grab whatever you need."

"But, John," Sherlock whines.

"No, Sherlock. Stop acting like a baby. You've done this to yourself, and now you're going to have to live with the consequences." John stands as Sherlock twists and shoves his face into the back of the couch. The tea cup and his mobile fly to the floor, and every chance of John's happiness returning joins them. "I feel like doing that, too," admits the ex-army doctor, bowing his head and choosing to relocate to the bedroom for the upcoming months.

* * *

The sixth of January is when their relationship changes.

Let it be known that today, that sixth of January, is Sherlock's birthday.

And John, hoping to bring some sort of _life_ back into the consulting detective, went out and bought him a cake. It's a small cake, coated with white icing to match the flavor inside, with only three words on the surface—"Happy Birthday, Sherlock!" The gesture itself is only to display John's remembrance of the birth of his boyfriend, but John wishes this'd be a kick to spark _something_ back into the man, who had only last week told John he'd put up his microscope and stop deducting. Now, that'd be literally impossible for Sherlock to ever finalize the lifespan of how fast his brain and mouth could work, but John still became worried.

So, buying a candle and stuffing his tongue in his cheek, John returns to Baker Street.

Snow litters the pavement. It sticks to John's hair and licks at his face as he carefully proceeds into 221B, absolutely unnerved by the eerie silence of the building. He makes sure not to call out Sherlock's name, in case Mrs. Hudson were to hear and emerge (he'd been very persistent in having her away from the flat). He travels up the stairs and slips inside the door, his feet the only sound reaching his ears.

Once inside the safety of their home, he tells Sherlock he's come back. He maneuvers the plastic shopping bag to his other arm to unlace his shoes and step out of them. "Sherlock," he says again, but he doesn't get a reply.

John moves his shoes out of the way and starts into the kitchen. He sets the bag on the Food and Experiments Table and bites his lip. "Sherlock?"

"In here."

The voice that echoes from the bedroom is soft, low, almost as if the owner itself is weak and on the verge of a breakdown. Knowing this could ring true, John hurries into the room, ignoring the pain in his shoulder when he runs into the door frame. "Sherlock?"

The man in question is sitting atop the bed, legs tucked into his chest, arms curled around them. His head is propped on his bony knees, his face shoved in to avoid eye contact with any individual. At this angle, John can see the way Sherlock's hair parts and fades into repeating, unnatural balding spots. It was only that morning John heard Sherlock from the shower screaming at the amount of hair clinging to his hands and the drain.

The clothes Sherlock's wearing are different from the ones he dressed in this morning, too. This gives John the extra push to sit beside Sherlock and touch his elbow, rubbing it, offering comfort. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's wrong?" Sherlock retorts, refusing to raise his head from the concealment of his knees.

"Oh, I don't know. Just a hunch." John moves his hand to Sherlock's back. He uses his fingertips to rub circles into the skin, feeling at the way the skin grew over the stitches he was so repulsed of to remove. "Talk to me, maybe?"

"You'd make fun of me."

"I'd never make fun of you," confesses John, then bites his tongue. He's lied to a certain level.

Sherlock doesn't raise his head as he starts speaking again, "I had an accident."

Already seeing where this could only possibly lead, John catches his bottom lip in his teeth and asks, just for the hell of it, "What do you mean?"

"They say"—Sherlock straightens up, his face still not turned to meet John—"bowel control is the first to go."

Being a medical man, John has learned not to laugh at specific ideas and terms and situations. This is one of those times. He snakes his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulls him into his side, leaning his head against the other's. "Was it—?"

"Embarrassing?" Sherlock interrupts. "Yes, it was. I couldn't even make it to the bathroom in time. Do you know how confused I was when one moment, I was enjoying a cup of tea with a piece of toast, and then the next, I—" He pulls away from John and drops his head in his hands. "I don't even want to talk about it. It won't happen again." He presses his fingers together. "It can't happen again."

John doesn't try to convince him otherwise. He gets up from the bed. "I have something for you." Sherlock doesn't reply or make a movement to acknowledge John's presence. John frowns, but still goes into the kitchen to grab the cake, a lighter, and two forks. He carefully puts in the candle above the "Happy" and "Birthday" before smiling and going back into the room. "Hey," he greets for the second time that day, sliding to sit in front of Sherlock. "Happy Birthday!" He places the cake between the two of them, the younger immediately groaning.

"Oh, John, don't tell me you—"

"Shut up." John grins and lights the candle. "It's your birthday. I had to do something."

"Actually, no, you didn't."

"Actually, yes, I did, you git." He lightly pushes the cake closer to the noiret. "Just blow it out, or else I'll sing."

Sherlock laughs, and the noise is an orchestra's symphony to his ears. "We can't have that," he remarks, leaning in, lightly pursing his top lip. The candle light ignites his face in a healthy glow that casts away the stone-gray his skin had taken. With this, Sherlock looks normal, and John is almost inclined to believe that everything is normal; but then Sherlock tilts his head to the left, and the light catches his face just right to reveal a gaping, empty eye socket on the right side of his face.

It's gone the next second, but a second is all John needs to realize that Sherlock will _never_ be the same again. Sure, he never truly thought Sherlock was going to get better—though, there's always a part of him deep down that wished for it, but he knew it wouldn't come true.

He tries not to act disgusted when Sherlock exclaims "Happy Birthday to me" in a proud tone and asks for the fork John's holding.

John tries not to act disgusted when he watches Sherlock dig into the cake and shovel a bit into his mouth.

He tries not to act disgusted when Sherlock spits the wet cake batter back onto the white icing.

And John so desperately tries not to act disgusted when Sherlock stares at him and tells him, "I think people would taste better than this."

* * *

So, whenever the small hours of the morning strike the clock, Sherlock would nudge John out of the flat with hushed whispers and blatant excitement for his next meal—his next meal being an unfortunate passerby John would have the (equally unfortunate) luck to run in to, no matter the state they were displaying.

Of course, Sherlock has his tastes. "I don't mind the inebriated ones," he reminds John one February night, as he grabs his blue scarf and drapes it around John's neck. "I like the flavor of younger persons more than the old, you do know that?" He pats John's face with his clammy hands.

And John nods, because he does know.

And Sherlock smiles at him, all tooth and gum (he's missing a few of his teeth). "John," he says, moving his hands to his lover's lower back, "I want to try a little kid sometime." He shoves him a duffel bag, pushes him out, and shuts the door in his face, and John wants to crawl back into bed and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Instead, he obliges.

He always does.

He's brought back numerous delicacies to Sherlock, and he's seen the detective grin like a child on Christmas and clap his hands and bend over—

Then John leaves the room.

He never delivers the whole body; that'd be a bit ridiculous. An arm and a few organs are enough to satisfy Sherlock until the next night. In the meantime, John's noticed Sherlock gnaws on a part of his knuckle and neglects any sustenance he is offered. "I cannot stomach that anymore," says the nonliving human, wrinkling his nose at a kettle of tea. He's adopted watching the telly during the daylight hours, mostly the news reports, where he often chuckles at the repeated occurrences of mutilated bodies found throughout London. He's even tuned on a press conference by the Yard a time or two and dropped to his knees in front of the television and laughed until John joins him on the ground and yanks out a handful of his hair.

Surprising them both, Lestrade or the rest of the Scotland Yard hasn't tried to contact either of them over the matter of this "seemly-Hannibal-Lecter serial killer".

John decides he doesn't like that title as he leans against the side of the local pub. He figures tonight should be the night he grants Sherlock's desire for a child, but so far, he's only managed to catch glances of teenagers wandering around in packs. He can't take them all, so he leaves them be.

A car is flashing its headlights down the street. The air is chilly, and John tightens the scarf around his neck.

When his hope is almost gone, a young man with big ears and a pig nose stands next to John. "Got a light?" he asks in a very posh tone.

"Sorry," John says unapologetically.

They stand on the quiet sidewalk for a short while until the man points accusingly at John. "Are you, like, one of those prostitutes?"

"Do I look like a prostitute?" John asks, but doesn't give the other time to answer as he grabs the side of his head and smashes it against the brick siding of the pub. Cursing himself for not checking his surroundings first, John grabs the unconscious man and drags him to the nearest alleyway.

The weight is hardly a factor in this endeavor anymore. He can pack bodies through London with little ease.

The killing isn't a contribution to his being bothered. He's killed plenty of people.

And the chance of his getting caught isn't an aspect that keeps him up from slumber. He and Sherlock had developed an elaborate back-up story to tell if he had been handed over to the Yard.

But the key that _does_ ring as problematic in his mind is the fact Sherlock is deteriorating. He'd never be prepared for the day when Sherlock doesn't function any longer, and his inability to hold down anything other than human flesh and organ is the indication that he's becoming more and more like a monster and less and less like… John.

John's barely noticed he's smashed the man's head to pieces. Embarrassed for caring and feeling guilty, he hurriedly steals the leg and intestines and leaves the future crime scene.

* * *

"It's February twelfth," says John, as he watches Sherlock over the edge of the newspaper in his hands. The fire in the hearth crackles in time to the tapping of Sherlock's broken fingernails on the surface of a kitchen counter. John clears his throat and fixes his gaze back onto the print, barely skimming an article on another death of an individual in the London area.

"So?" Sherlock replies. His tapping ceases.

"It's your brother's birthday," presses John. He folds the paper and shoves it out of sight. "Called him or texted him? Wished him a happy one?"

A grin spreads across Sherlock's face, and the decaying features on his face prolong the expression. "I sent him a present," he tells John, slowly turning to meet his eye on the doctor's face.

The stare sends shivers down John's spine, and already knowing the answer, he asks, "What did happen to your eye anyway?"

"Popped it out," confesses Sherlock, pinching an exposed nerve on his cheek. "I wanted to see if I could still see if the organ was barely hanging by its stalk. I could, but then the damned thing fell off." With a shrug, he concludes, "It didn't hurt."

John stands, hand on his stomach. "And, if I'm assuming correctly"—Sherlock softly smiles—"you sent it… to Mycroft."

"I left a card with it," Sherlock adds. "It said 'With all the love in the world, Brother Dearest'." His brow furrowed, he watches John as he quickly crosses the room. "Where are you going?"

John's head spins out of control. "Sick," he barely mumbles before leaning over the toilet and vomiting.

He's normally kept a strong stomach and a powerful mind, but this time swept his feet from under him. He even passed out on the bathroom floor after his ordeal and woken up several hours later.

Nothing appears off. Then he steps into the sitting room and sees Sherlock on the couch using, what seems to be, a human finger to clean between his teeth like a wooden toothpick.

John checks the time. It's briefly past noon.

Eyes wide and throat closed up, he whispers, "Did you go out and get—?"

"No," Sherlock cuts in, glancing at John. "I never left the flat."

The blond, frowning and scratching the back of his head, shuts his eyes and curses Sherlock for everything—for being who he is, for leaving the room a mess, for making others' lives drastically harder than they need be, and for displaying a _human head_ as if this were a sad form of _Lord of the Flies_.

"She was a brilliant landlady," quips Sherlock, flinging the bone across the room like a dart.

* * *

It snows on the last day of February. Neither John nor Sherlock take pleasure in it. They sit on opposite sides of the flat, never returning eye contact. Sherlock, at the kitchen table, has decayed like a buried body on its fourteenth week of death. His face no longer holds the capability to appear youthful, and he has trouble moving around. His empty eye socket droops, his gums have turned black, and his hair has mostly gone.

Along with his bowel control, Sherlock has lost the ability to feel pain, see correctly, and talk his usual long and elegant sentences. He often spends his days sitting at the table, hands in his lap and shoulders hunched, only straightening his crooked spine to allow John to feed him bits and parts of another slaying. John notices he has trouble swallowing most times, but he doesn't say anything—just smiles at him and gives him the next piece when he opens his mouth.

His odor has considerably increased. John sprays the flat with a can of Febreeze when he wakes up and before he goes to bed to ward off the possibility of someone coming to investigate the smell.

John wants to believe Sherlock doesn't need oxygen to survive, but the way he gasps for air at certain moments during the day makes John get up from his chair and check on the man. A hand on his back and a reflex to grab his wrist with his other hand, John always tells him, "Just give me the word, and I'll do it."

And Sherlock always rolls his eye to rest on his boyfriend and groans, "No."

And John always goes to bed.

That night, instead of staying in the kitchen, Sherlock ventures into the bedroom, feet sliding against the flooring, his hands outstretched to grab onto the door or anything else that could help his balance if needed. John is pulling on a pair of boots that are three sizes too big. He raises his head, and they stare at each other. "I know," John says, looking down to zip his jacket. "I'm a little late. I'm heading out now."

"No."

The word isn't a groan. It's a precise understanding of the English language.

John stares at Sherlock again. "What?"

"I can hold off a night," the black-haired adult mumbles. "I, I want—" From what he can see, John notes Sherlock's eye revolving about the room, taking the scenery in, before landing on the unkempt bed.

"Oh."

Despite his appearance, John has kept an unhealthy attraction to Sherlock. His cracked lip and ruined appendages and other deformities are enough to quell the hard pressing of John's war nightmares to become their own volume of horrors for when he shuts his eyes.

And yet.

The expression on Sherlock's face is one of desperation, physical and mental exhaustion.

Tears stick to his lower lid.

Forgetting his boots, John marches over to Sherlock; and on his tip toes, he threads his fingers through what's left of the dead adult's hair and kisses him, kisses him roughly and gently and sweetly and painfully and with all the rest of the adjectives in the world. Sherlock's fingers go to John's neck, curling into the skin, and his remaining teeth nip at John's bottom lip; and John's never been so unafraid of this zombie for the first time in his life.

They enter a dance, and it only stops when they tumble onto the bed.

John grabs at every part of Sherlock, bringing his mouth to each inch of skin he can reach; and Sherlock, with his head tilted onto the pillows, hums and claws at the material on John's chest; and they undress; and it's so heated that John suddenly becomes frightened Sherlock might melt, but the press of the other's socked feet against his backside reassures him that he's indeed _fine_; and they continue kissing; and it's so rough and sick.

In the morning, John knows he's going to vomit the contents of his stomach all over the city of London when he finds the taste of Sherlock's decomposing body lingering in his mouth, but at the moment, he just _doesn't care_.

He cradles Sherlock's head with one palm while the other holds his side. They're rocking against each other, and Sherlock's moaning in his ear and begging, begging, _begging_ for penetration. John shushes him and kisses the parts of his nose that haven't fallen off and slides against him, and (dear God) his orgasm hits him like a tidal wave. It isn't long before Sherlock's squirming under him, his nails two centimeters deep into John's flesh, his mouth a round _O_ as he cries and curses John for being perfect, for being his lantern in eternal darkness, for being there when no one else dared be.

And by the end of it, they're both clinging to each other, crying, whimpering, screeching at the top of their lungs.

* * *

Fortunately, John's stomach remains a boat on smooth seas when the daylight hours erupt. He wakes up fully rested with Sherlock's head atop his torso, those fingers of his touching the dog tags John hadn't removed during last night's events.

"Do you still miss the war?" asks Sherlock, his voice hoarse and barely recognizable.

John doesn't quite know. His arm moves to wrap around Sherlock's waist, and he pulls him closer to his body. The gray skin forces goose pimples to break John's own tanned skin. A sigh slides from his lips. "It feels like I'm still in the war."

Sherlock nods, hums. He stares at the necklace. "Did I hurt you last night?"

"I should be asking you."

"No," presses Sherlock, eye narrowing. "I should be asking you."

John frowns and tilts his gaze to the ceiling. "You done damage, but you're very careful."

And Sherlock proudly smiles and rises to his forearms. "I don't want you to end up like me."

"What if I want that?" questions John, and they look at each other, and Sherlock shakes his head and shuts his eye, and John does the same. "All right."

"It's awful, John," Sherlock begins a few minutes later. His fingers ghost up and down John's arm, lightly plucking at the fine hair. "My brain is literally and figuratively quitting. At first, it was just my pulse that betrayed me, but now, I'm afraid to admit, it's so much deeper than that." John turns back to the other man, his brow furrowed, lips together. "I didn't mind the state I was in before," Sherlock continues, his own gaze fixated on John now, too. "It was fascinating to learn how my body tried to fight off the virus, and then… unfortunately… lose to the illness.

"The way my appearance quickly changed, the vulnerability my skin had taken to were all neat and intelligent and… sad." He frowns, and John frowns back. "I didn't care that my hair was falling out. I didn't care that I smelled. I didn't even care that I lost the functioning taste buds left on my tongue to tell me I only fancied human. I didn't care about _any_ of that.

"I cared about my mind." Sherlock's hands fly to his face as he rubs the flexible flesh under his fingers. A few pieces fall off and land on the pillow. John brushes it away and smiles at Sherlock, who groans and scratches at his head and focuses on John once more. "I've lost the ability to feel." He tugs at the white cotton sheet and pulls it over their naked bodies. "I can't tell what this is anymore. It's just bland, and I'm not sure what 'bland' even means.

"I can't smell, and I so desperately wish I could acquire that back in order to bask in the fragrance of your deodorant, your shampoo—everything about you, John. I want to smell the tea on the kettle. I want to smell the pollution in the air when we step outside. I want to smell this room right now!" he exclaims, waving a hand around. "I miss smelling sex in the atmosphere. It was so pungent and heavenly; and dear _God_, I've turned into a child."

"You can stop talking any time you want," John says quietly.

Sherlock eyes him. "If it was only that simple," he whispers, his voice returning to great strength. "I'm thankful hearing is the last to go, so I can welcome Death with your voice swimming in my brain. I'm also pleasantly thankful the blood flow in my system has the sustainability to let me orgasm"—John chuckles—"and I admire the way my muscles sometimes give out and leave me immobile for hours on end." Sherlock starts to laugh then, and it comes out abnormally high and unlike the one John often used to hear. "And I always wonder when my mind will leave me.

"Only this morning, I forgot what my name was, and I didn't know how to work out the Pythagorean theorem. I knew the sky was blue, and the grass was green, but… I didn't know my name." John sees tears travel down the rough surface of Sherlock's cheek. "How did I not know my name, John?"

Trying to provide the best comfort he can, John brings Sherlock to his chest and whispers unknown assurance in his crippled ear and rubs his back.

Sherlock proceeds to talk. "I know my name now, though. It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective." He grips onto John's shoulders, and John hears the tiniest _crack_ when Sherlock's fingernails break and crumble into dust. "I'm scared, John," he mumbles. "What if one day, I don't recognize you? What if I wake up, and I don't know that you're the best man in the world who's been taking care of me? What if I don't know that?"

"You _will_ know that," John says into Sherlock's ear. He hugs the man and refuses to let go. "You'll always be able to remember, Sherlock. Because. That thing. In there"—he points to the center of Sherlock's forehead—"Right there, Sherlock, is never going to die. Your mind is going to keep on racing, you said so yourself. Your mind will keep racing, and nothing can ever stop it."

That seems to quiet Sherlock for a bit. He sniffs and grabs at the dog tags around John's neck again. "May I wear this?" he requests. John can't refuse. He pulls the chain off his figure and carefully places it around Sherlock's tattered and lightly bleeding neck. Sherlock smirks and leans in, and they kiss for a while until Sherlock complains he can barely hold his head upright.

So, they lie in bed for the remainder of the day.

As John pulls on clothes to retrieve a meal for Sherlock that night, the detective sits on the mattress with a positively beaming look on his face, and John giggles and asks, "What're you smiling for?"

And Sherlock, holding the dog tags between his palms, answers, "I still remember my favorite color is peach."

* * *

An early March morning is when John becomes lucky.

The weather is shit, and the small child was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The boy didn't scream, didn't try to get away, didn't even resist as John's arms wrapped around his torso to drag him down an alley.

John hopes the kid wasn't scared out of his wits. He prays he went peacefully, as he did with the other victims.

This child had the rest of his life to live. The man with the big ears and the pig nose could have had a wife back home. The greasy-haired girl with dreadlocks could be studying the cure for cancer. The couple with matching black hair and green eyes could have had their baby left behind with a sitter. The small girl with thick-rimmed glasses could have been supporting her family.

And in that moment, John just doesn't _care_.

He hasn't cared that these deaths would come back to haunt him right after he killed them or even a week or so after the murder had taken place. He doesn't care, and he honestly believes he never will.

The one person who matters is Sherlock, and Sherlock needs these homicides to survive, and John needs Sherlock to survive, and it's a never-ending cycle. He doesn't feel guilty when he rips the body limb-from-limb and stuffs the arms and legs and all of its organs into his duffel bag. Normally, he doesn't bring back the majority of the mutilated person, but decides on that night, on this specific occasion, he's going to—for Sherlock and his odd desire to taste a child.

There's a bounce in John's step as he goes back to Baker Street, and his uplifting mood has the potential to part the dark clouds and bring a sudden period of warm sunlight and good tidings.

He's glad for the absence of Mrs. Hudson (who is visiting her sister, if anyone were to ask), because he is practically prancing up the steps to 221B, calling for his boyfriend in a sing-song tone.

Returning to the flat, John kicks off his boots and drags the duffel bag behind him as he turns down the hall, heading to the bedroom. "Oh, Sherlock," he says, a smile pulling at the edges of his aging face. "Sherlock Holmes, I have something for you."

His demeanor falls when he opens the door and sees Sherlock on the floor.

It isn't the sight of Sherlock on the ground that causes his mood to diminish; it's the animalistic look in his eyes, the snarl attached to his mouth, the hunched posture his form had taken.

The duffel bag slips from John's grasp, and Sherlock launches himself at it.

John barely has enough room and time to jump onto the safety of their bed before Sherlock's hands rip at the duffel bag, breaking the zipper and reaching down to grab at the body parts.

Instead of nodding at John and telling him his thanks, Sherlock grunts.

Instead of allowing John to feed him smaller portions, Sherlock attacks the supply with little teeth and loud moans.

And instead of savoring each bite and saving some for a later snack, Sherlock eats everything in under five minutes.

The sounds and the sight of it all frighten John, and the smell tosses vomit up his esophagus. He spits it onto the floor, and he has to stop himself from watching Sherlock gobble that up as well.

John can barely talk. He's shaking so bad. His left hand grips the mattress' edge. He groans.

"Oh, Sherlock."

The room is a crime scene in itself. It's going to take John ages to clean this.

"Oh, Sherlock," he repeats to the one below him, who is picking up crumbs of brain and liver and licking them off the long pillars of his fingers. Sherlock doesn't seem to hear John, so John says in a much louder tone, "Oi, I'm talking."

The look Sherlock gives him isn't familiar. The usual look in those pale blue eyes isn't calm, collected, alert; the expression now can only be described as havoc, wild, _dangerous_.

The Sherlock-thing snarls.

John doesn't feel safe anymore.

At the moment he braces a pillow in front of him as a type of shield, the Sherlock-thing jumps on top of the bed. The wrestling they exchange is not playful in the least, and the adrenaline pulsing through John's veins isn't helping him win. He's no longer shaking, although the thing above him is suddenly vibrating as yells and fingernails claw at the pillow, tearing apart the only layer of his protection.

"I'm going to die," John says to no one in particular. In a hopeful move to dizzy the other, he grabs its hands in the pillow case and roughly pushes it away, digging his heels into the bed to jump off and land in a puddle of guts and blood. The Sherlock-thing is momentarily confused, but he quickly tosses the ruined piece of furniture to the side and joins John standing on the floor.

They look at each other. John smiles. "Hey, Sherlock," he says.

The Sherlock-thing growls and curls its fingers, lip pulling back to become some sort of predator.

John cries when the thing bites into his forearm.

The thing whines when John punches it in the side of its head, sending it to the floor in a hopeless heap.

Everything becomes a blur. The blood from his arm drips to mix with the bath beneath his feet, and John hastily moves around the room, grabbing a sewing needle and several bundles of thread. He sits on the bed and works and works and messes up and works some more. He's squeezed out too much blood and hopefully the infection, and it really fucking hurts. The stitching will suffice, but it's crooked and peach-colored and _wrong_, because it's done with his right hand, and Sherlock bit him, Sherlock bit him, that fucker _bit him_.

The room is spinning. He stares at the mass on the ground, wanting it dead, dead, dead. "I hope you're dead," he hisses, tears spilling from his eyes. "Oh, God, I hope you're dead." His head drops into his hands, and he sobs and hyperventilates and hiccups, and when a weight on the bed joins him, he doesn't question it.

He doesn't care. He just doesn't care.

The Sherlock-thing beside him on the soaked mattress has since lost its tantrum state, and the eye in its socket is cloudy with unprocessable thoughts and actions. It smells of feces and death, but John doesn't mind.

"I don't know where I am," the thing mumbles. "I don't remember what happened. My head hurts. I don't know."

John stays quiet. His head throbs, and he can feel a rise in temperature climbing in his body. His ears turn pink.

"Do you know where I am?" inquires the Sherlock-thing. John watches it grab the dog tags around his neck and rub the metal between sore fingertips, and then it pouts. "Do I know you?" he asks, turning to rest his gaze on John.

And John shakes his head. "I don't know you either."

Simultaneously, they gaze at the window, notice the rain. The Sherlock-thing grins and rattles the dog tags. "I like the rain. Well, I think I do."

John curtly nods. "Me, too," he drawls. Hallucinations begin. A fawn chews at the bookcase.

The zombie glances at the blond's left arm, at the messy stitches, and it instantly smiles even brighter. "I like the color peach, too."


End file.
